Monteverde

The cloud forest is where my quiet animal spirit glides up to go home. Amid the misting dew prickling on every underleaf, vine, fallen bark and tree the color of rosy, rustic sycamore and earth-rich dirt and feathering green a glow from the other world — the fog hangs still between flower and nettle, ravine and canopy, under the wild guava tree, holding its exhale while silence lays down upon the treetops. Serenity is held up in the furtiveness of condensation, in-between-ness of something about to happen, and the nothing of nature carrying on unobserved. The tranquility that rainforests do not always possess because of their vibrant and precipitous splendor — they are wild and bright while the cloud forest floats as a wilderness in a dream, blurred by memory’s shortcomings, a haven for the unconscious and the unnameable.